


Rocky Beginnings

by LadyVegeets



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 19:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7696213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVegeets/pseuds/LadyVegeets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bulma breaks up with Yamaha once and for all, but when Vegeta stumbles upon her, will he be his usual jerk self, or will something inspire a connection between these two unlikely, lonely people? Set early on during the 3 year gap. (Vegebul one shot.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocky Beginnings

Just a rough little ficlet.

* * *

 

**Rocky Beginnings**

 

 

Bulma had been ignoring the warning signs, thanks to their new house guest, Vegeta. On top of dealing with her friends and her own work, she now had to deal with the psychopathic murdering space-alien. During the day he mostly kept to himself, training constantly, but when he wasn’t pushing his own limits, he was pushing hers, making snide remarks and treating her little better than a slave. Bulma soon found herself arguing with the saiyan every other day. It would often start with one of them saying or doing something to piss the other off and from there spiral out of control until the whole house could hear their screaming. As such, Bulma had decided that Vegeta was an asshole, and her pity towards him for being a world-less, friendless, prince-of-no-one was wearing very thin. If it weren’t for the Android threat, she might have kicked him out by now. Everyone thought she was crazy for having housed him in the first place. Yet perhaps that was part of the reason why she wanted to keep him around; Bulma liked to do things her own way, and she wasn’t going to admit that she’d been wrong taking Vegeta in. Besides, there had been times, glimpses of Vegeta when perhaps he hadn’t realized or cared that she’d been looking, when she saw the man behind the egotistical mask, a quiet, lonely man staring up at a foreign sky, finally free of his master’s reigns but with nothing to his name save for his shattered pride. But then he’d do or say something bitterly cruel to ruin it all. If she was really mad she’d try to slap him, but he could easily dodge and laugh in her face at her pathetic attempts, which only angered her further. And maybe, just maybe, that had something to do with how often his gravity chamber ‘broke down’.

Yet because of this latest distraction, Bulma had less time to notice that Yamcha was being strange. His late replies, his hazy excuses, his distracted air when with her. Bulma would have noticed it all, and more, a lot sooner if it weren’t for the broody figure that would sneak up to bark orders at her and demand she make the gravity room more challenging or to fix it when it went down. At least, Vegeta had been an easy scapegoat for her and Yamcha’s relationship issues, but even she was coming to realize that their problems went beyond a stressful houseguest. 

When Yamcha came in smelling of perfume and with lipstick on his cheek, trying to play it off as an overzealous sales assistant, Bulma accused him of cheating. They fought, Yamcha apologized, said it was just some harmless flirting, and by the end Bulma found herself forgiving him despite her better judgement. She didn’t know why she forgave him, perhaps they had too many years behind them, perhaps she wanted to believe his sincerity, or perhaps she was just afraid of being alone. Or more alone than she already felt.

And for a while, it seemed like Yamcha had turned things around and was making good on his promise. But soon enough the inconsistencies in his stories started popping up again, and Bulma found herself listening to more and more unbelievable excuses for why he wouldn’t answer her calls or why he had receipts for lingerie he’d never given her. And somehow yet again he convinced her that it was all okay… Well, if she was being honest, he didn’t convince her, but she had wanted to believe that it was okay.

That was, until the day she got a text from him, a picture. Bulma stared at it for a long time, trying to process what she was seeing. Yamcha was lying in what appeared to be a bed, taking a selfie with a pretty woman kissing his cheek. What was worse, they were both topless, sweaty, their hair tousled. Her mind couldn’t accept what she was seeing until something dropped onto the screen. She realized she was crying.

Less than 20 minutes later, Yamcha was at her knock, looking ashen-faced. He took one look at her and any hope he’d been holding onto fled. “You saw?” he said, shoulders slumping. “I was… Fuck, Bulma, I sent that to the wrong number. I mean, I…. I didn’t want you to find out that way.”

Bulma had never felt so angry and heartbroken at once. She screamed at him for a long while, yelling furiously between bouts of sobbing and throwing things at him. One moment she accepted his comfort, the next she was telling him to never touch her again. Finally she made the decision she should have made ages ago.

“GET OUT, YAMCHA. IT’S OVER. I MEAN REALLY OVER THIS TIME. YOU AND ME, IT’S DONE WITH, YOU HEAR ME? DON’T SHOW YOUR FACE AROUND HERE AGAIN.”

Bulma glared at him, her eyes swimming with tears, watching Yamcha struggle with the news. He’d already protested, begged, pleaded for her to not be mad, to forgive him. Now, there was nothing else he could say. This was the final straw. He seemed to wrestle with something inwardly for a moment, but finally he turned around with his shoulders tense and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him. Bulma stared after him. She couldn’t believe he’d just left like that. Ten years together, and it was over. 

She thought she was going to be sick. Bulma slumped to the sofa and buried her face in her knees, sobbing.

A moment later the front door opened and for a wild minute she thought Yamcha had returned. But that assumption was quickly dashed when she heard a deep, familiar saiyan voice.

“The fuck is his problem?” Vegeta grouched to himself.

Bulma couldn’t even acknowledge him, refused to, in fact. Of all the people that had to see her in this vulnerable state, he was the last person she would have wanted. The thought only made her feel more miserable, adding to her pain. She tried to muffle her tears, but to little avail as she was overwhelmed with heartbreak and self-pity.

* * *

 

 

Vegeta glanced at the couch where he saw Bulma curled up, and heard the muffled tears. It froze him to the spot, the scene unexpected. The blue-haired woman was always so confident, so fiery. He’d never seen or heard her cry before; throw tantrums, yes, and sulk and snivel in fear, yes, but never this. These were genuine tears, sobs of anguish, and it made Vegeta intently uncomfortable, reminding him of unpleasant memories he’d rather leave buried.  He decided the best thing to do was to sneak by and leave her alone.

He took a few steps away, wondering what had got her so worked up, when he put two and two together. He’d just passed Yamcha on his way in who’d looked irritated and pale, and now here was Bulma, weeping inconsolably. Something ugly must have come to pass between the two supposed ‘love-birds’. Vegeta felt a prickle of irritation overwhelm him, and his hands fisted. He looked over his shoulder at Bulma, trying to assess her, but she was huddled up and all he could see was her red dress and wild curls. 

“What’s wrong, did he not buy you the right kind of flowers?” Vegeta sneered at her, baiting her. She never failed to back down from one of his cruel remarks. Despite how irritating she could be, their little fights had become one of the last vestiges of social interaction he had with anyone other than his own inner voice on this goddamned planet. He could barely admit it to anyone, even himself, but he’d come to rely on Bulma to satiate his need for affirmation.

Bulma didn’t even lift her head, her sobbing unending. 

Vegeta frowned. That was unlike her. He knew he should just leave, but now he was taking it as a personal a affront that she wasn’t even acknowledging him or his attempt to rile her up. He turned to face her and decided on a different tactic. 

“I could blow him up, end his miserable life,” he offered, sneering at her cockily. “Again.”

Bulma’s crying softened, and she raised her head. Her face was pale, her cheeks streaked with tears. She looked so miserable and fragile it set his teeth on edge. Vegeta had the irrational desire to punch something to curb the unpleasant feelings stirring inside of him.

Bulma shook her head, looking down. “No, don’t kill him,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Vegeta huffed, figuring she’d say something like that. She was so predictable, too soft-hearted.

Bulma sniffed, and scowled. “Killing him would only end his suffering too quickly.”

Her words slapped Vegeta as sharply as a tail-whip from Freiza. His brows rose, surprised and impressed by her callousness. He’d seen Bulma’s fiery nature during their arguments and in the way she’d invited him into her home, but he’d never seen this side of her, this vindictiveness. It was intriguing.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I know a lot about making others suffer.”

Bulma’s gaze dragged up to meet his eyes. They looked at each other, and Vegeta searched her blue eyes, waiting for her to be disgusted, to tell him to get lost or to stop being a jerk as she was wont to do. But she didn’t. Her mouth parted, and Vegeta’s gaze darted down to watch her tongue wet her lips before speaking. “Can you teach me?”

His eyes flicked back up to hers, struggling to hide his surprise. He gave her a disbelieving huff. “You wouldn’t have the stomach for it.”

“Try me.”

Vegeta gave her a dubious look, but he came over to sit by her on the couch. If nothing else, at least he’d gotten her to stop crying. 

He looked at her from up close. She was staring at him with such wide, trusting blue eyes that he suddenly felt very exposed. He looked away, glaring out at the distance. “So you want him to suffer without dying?”

“Yes.”

“Any other specifications?”

Bulma seemed to reflect on that. “No long term damage.”

“Tch.”

“And I want him to cry.”

Vegeta raised a brow, but said nothing. He thought for a moment, then nodded. “You’re not strong, so physical torture is out. You’ll want to damage him emotionally; ruin his reputation, or spirit…” Vegeta paused, thinking, then continued. “You have a lot of money at your disposal, don’t you? You could hire someone to prevent the trail from leading back to you. Use your contacts to -” He stopped when he turned to look at her, and was surprised by her expression.

Bulma was staring at him, but instead of fear or disgust, he saw… her. Just her, looking at him unflinchingly, taking everything in. “That’s awful,” she said, but her tone was more amazed, awed even, than disgusted. She reached out and touched his arm, her fingers ever so gently resting on his bicep. “Tell me more.”

Vegeta’s mind seemed to fizzle out for a moment. He didn’t know how to take her reaction, or her gentle touch. The only time he’d been touched was by an overburdened father who putt the fate of their race on his young son’s shoulders, or by tyrants, bullies and enemies who sought to subjugate Vegeta or beat him to a pulp. But Bulma’s touch was none of these, it was gentle and disconcerting for how unassuming it was. And her expression - she watched him, intrigued, unsettled by his brutal advice but not afraid of it, if anything, she was keen to learn more. Vegeta was unused to such avid attention. Everyone he met either feared him, or sought to use him.

Bulma baffled him, and that made him uneasy. What game could she possibly be playing at?

He turned away, giving her his profile, and continued to talk about various ways she could torture her boyfriend, or was it ‘ex’ now? He still had no idea what had transpired between Yamcha and Bulma, and frankly he didn’t care. Well, perhaps he cared a little; if Bulma wanted Yamcha to suffer, then Vegeta doubted he’d be seeing Yamcha around the house much more in the future, and that suited him just fine.

Vegeta quickly got caught up describing vicious and nasty ways of humiliating a man, lessons he’d learnt all too well under Frieza’s reign, tactics he’d both used and had used against him. It wasn’t until his throat felt dry that he realized how long he’d been talking for. He turned to look down at Bulma and was surprised to find that the pressure he felt on his arm was no longer her hand, but her cheek. She had fallen asleep, and had slumped over to rest peacefully against his shoulder.

Vegeta glared at her, dumbfounded, annoyed he’d been talking for no reason, and amazed that she’d fallen asleep listening to horrific methods of breaking a man’s will. He reached out to pull the woman off him, but the moment his fingers touched her shoulder, Bulma stirred, nuzzling against him. Vegeta blinked, taking in her peaceful expression. It occurred to him he’d never seen her so serene before, she was usually looking smug or angry or flustered when he was around, but never gentle and carefree, the way she was now. Vegeta scowled, and after a last, lingering glance at the pretty Earth woman’s face, he sat back and resigned himself to watching some TV on the couch, telling himself he wasn’t shoving her off to spare himself an argument or more tears.

* * *

 

 

Bulma awoke after a long, pleasant nap, and found herself alone in the living area. She sat up and looked at the pillow she’d been resting on with bemusement. The pillow was from one of the kitchen bar stools. How had it got there? She rubbed her eyes and looked around her, trying to remember what had happened. In the blink of an eye, it all came crashing back - the photograph, her break up with Yamcha, and…

… And Vegeta. 

She had been crying and Vegeta had… been kind to her? Is that what had happened? Was he the reason she had this pillow too? It seemed so unlikely, so impossible. Then Bulma remembered Gohan saying that Vegeta had saved their lives on Namek. Everyone had been skeptical, but now Bulma wondered if there was any validity to Gohan’s claims that Vegeta could be kind.

Bulma rose and tried to ruffle her curls into place as she wandered into the kitchen. She was hungry. Apparently she wasn’t the only one for she found Vegeta there, eating from several plates of food, his appetite rivaling that of Goku’s, though his eating manners were somewhat more dignified than her friend’s.

Vegeta glared up at her as she entered, watching her the way a large cat might eye its prey. Bulma tried not to let it unnerve her. She opened the fridge to see what was available to eat. She pulled out some food and sat down opposite Vegeta. His usual scowl deepened at her close proximity to his own.

“Thanks for talking to me earlier,” Bulma said a little bashfully as she cracked open a bottle of vitamin water. “I was kind of a mess, wasn’t I?”

“Tch,” Vegeta grumbled, looking back down at his food. “The next time you want to have a mental break down, please do it somewhere less inconvenient for others, like your room.”

Bulma clenched her teeth, but tried not to let his words rattle her. She took a drink to give herself time to calm before replying. “Yes, well, don’t worry, there won’t be a next time. Yamcha and I have broken up. For good.”

“Like I give a damn.” 

Bulma scowled at him. 

Vegeta looked up at her and narrowed his eyes. “I do, however, care about my suit.”

Bulma blinked, thrown off by the change of topic. “What about your suit?”

“You need to wash it after drooling all over the sleeve.”

Bulma felt color quickly rise to her cheeks, along with her temper. “I… I do NOT drool!”

Vegeta sneered at her. “The stain on my battle suit says otherwise. I expect it clean within the hour so I can continue training.”

“Wash it yourself, you stuck-up jerk. And as if I’d believe that you’d let me sleep on you!”

“It was better than listening to you snivel about that pathetic excuse for a mate. No wonder you wanted to make him suffer, it’s a miracle he’s made it this far in life. He must have been a very unsatisfying partner.”

Bulma felt herself explode, and before she could stop herself she was screaming at him. She couldn’t believe she thought he might have a shred of kindness within him, there couldn’t possibly be room for it when he was filled with nothing but pure ego. After she’d finished yelling at him, Bulma stormed out of the kitchen, muttering to herself about how done she was with men.

* * *

 

 

As Bulma stomped from the room, grumbling, Vegeta watched her leave. He smirked to himself, and continued eating. With Yamcha out of the picture, he was going to have a lot more opportunities to get under her skin. He had to entertain himself somehow when he wasn’t trying to surpass Kakarot. Riling Bulma up seemed as good a way as any to stave off the overwhelming loneliness that weighed on him each night before he fell into an exhausted sleep, haunted by the faces of those he’d failed or killed. Perhaps, just perhaps, if he observed Bulma enough, he’d find some small fraction of peace that he’d witnessed when she’d slept so trustingly against his side.

 

 

* * *

 

~*~*~*~

* * *

 

 

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! I’d love to hear any feedback, it’s been a loooong time since I did fanfic. I do have some other Vegebul stories in the works too, much bigger and juicier than this. Stay tuned!

 

 

 

 


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